


Breaking the Dry Spell

by Arcwin



Series: Ficlets [3]
Category: The Venture Bros
Genre: Arching, BAMF Brock Samson, Gen, No one wakes up Brock in the middle of a wet dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-14 22:36:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20855504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcwin/pseuds/Arcwin
Summary: Brock gets woken up in the middle of the night by the compound alarms going off. Who could possibly be so stupid? Ah, what does he care, anyway. At least now he gets to break his dry spell.





	Breaking the Dry Spell

Blood pounds in his ears. The alarms in the compound shook him out of a fucking awesome dream, instantly pissing him off. He doesn’t know who to give the Darwin award to, but he’ll bring it to them at the end of his bowie knife with a smile. Somebody’s gotta pay for this, and Brock loves being a debt collector.

Above him, the sirens continue wailing, red emergency lights lighting up the hallway like strobes at a rave. He creeps along barefoot, silent. This is his element. He might love it more than he loves a good bone. Yeah, probably. Down the corridor, he sees three dark shadows standing together. One of them is gesturing wildly at the other two, who look like kids that got caught stealing. As the lights flash, he can see the outline of a large pair of butterfly wings behind the main figure. 

Brock grins. He knew it. Only the Monarch would be stupid enough to break into the compound in the middle of the night during the longest dry spell he’s had in a long time. He nearly salivates as he pictures the looks of shock and horror on his future victims’ faces. It ain’t gonna be pretty by conventional standards, but it sure is appealing to Brock. His heart races as he tiptoes close enough to hear the shouted conversation between the three figures.

“You idiots! Why didn’t you kill the alarm?!” the Monarch screams, his voice reaching a fever pitch.

“Well, gee, Monarch, you think I know how to do that? I barely even passed algebra!” a nasally voice replies from the taller, thinner henchman. “Give us a break!”

“Yeah, Monarch,” the shorter, more rotund henchman adds, backing up his friend. “Anyway, we better get outta here before Brock Samson shows up.” He shudders, wings shaking, then looks over his shoulder.

A fourth figure approaches the group, hands over his ears. “Monarch, sir!” he shouts, standing at attention. “I’ve located Doctor Venture, he’s asleep on the couch in the lounge with a half empty bottle of peach Schnapps.”

The group looks back and forth at each other. “The alarms didn’t wake him up?” the Monarch asks, incredulous. “They’re so fucking loud! How is he still asleep?”

Brock shakes his head, knowing exactly why the Doc isn’t waking up. He saw him going through the medicine cabinet earlier, searching through his pill bottles for something. Once he found it, he held his arm out of the bathroom and shook the bottle at Brock, trying to entice him.  _ “You wanna join me on a pharmaceutical joyride?” _ he asked with a sly grin. Brock didn’t even bother to respond, walking past on his last security circuit before going to bed.

“Oh,  _ crap _ ,” he hears in the taller, nasally henchman’s voice. It’s the same thing he says every time he sees Brock. He wonders how this one guy keeps escaping him, especially since he doesn’t seem too bright. 

The Monarch turns and makes a gurgling noise as he lays eyes on Brock. “Fuck!” he shouts, then turns and runs in the opposite direction. The others he’d been talking with follow suit, feet sliding all over the tiled floor of the hall as they scramble after him. Brock leaps after them, tackling the fourth henchman to the floor. 

“Craaaaaap!” he hears again as the other three run off. 

Beneath him, his unlucky victim squirms, whimpering and pleading with him to be let go. But, it’s too late. It was too late the moment this dude signed up to be a henchman for the Monarch. The bowie knife has already found its place between his ribs, the tip of it lodged somewhere near the man’s heart. 

Brock leans over his prey to whisper in his ear. “No, don’t fight it. It’ll only make it worse,” he says as thick blood seeps out of the wound, winding its way down the back of his hand. It’s warm, so warm, contrasting with the cool tile beneath his knees. His own blood throbs in his ears, a heady reminder of how much he  _ loves _ this. He might be a sociopath, or maybe he just loves murdering those who deserve it. Whatever the case, it’s confirmed. He loves it more than a good bone, even more than a good bone with Malatov. 

The squirming slowly subsides as the man beneath him bleeds out, finally falling still. The euphoria of a fresh kill washes over the bodyguard, drowning out the sounds of the siren and the annoyance of the flashing lights. A sense of peace takes over, bringing Brock the kind of clarity he’d been lacking. 

He stands, his thighs and forearms covered in blood, and smiles. His eyes are a bit crazy, wild and bloodshot as he peers off down the hallway. Three shadows watch him curiously.

They should have kept running.

Brock takes off after them, only this time he’s in a trance fueled by bloodlust. No pounding heart, no thumping of the blood in his veins. He’s perfectly calm, and it’s terrifying. 

“Fuck, run! Runnnnn!” the Monarch screams as Brock chases after them.


End file.
